Voynich
by reapersbarge
Summary: "I've heard of this. It's rumored to have driven men mad trying to decode what the symbols mean," Abraxas said. He glanced at Tom's face curiously before staring back down at the strange book. "Those claims haven't been substantiated actually," Tom explained. "Most people usually have no idea what I'm talking about." "I'm not most people."


"Grande cappuccino for…Ab?" a barista called out into the packed café.

A light haired man dressed entirely in a close-fitting suit wound his way through the other patrons to the counter. A briefcase was clasped in his left hand while the left picked up his drink. He turned to quickly make his escape.

And ran straight into another and poured both of their drinks all over his new boots.

"Hey! Watch where—" the blond's objections were promptly halted as he looked up. He was momentarily dazed. The black-clad phantom was the prettiest man Abraxas had ever seen. He looked like a knife one would willingly throw themselves upon just to be closer to his brilliant gleam. Abraxas had always been fascinated with shiny things. "My mistake. Let me buy you another."

"Considering you spilled my last one, I would hope you would replace it. Grande Americano. Meet me over at that corner table," drawled the shorter man before moving to the counter to mop himself up. Abraxas retrieved the drinks and strolled to the table. His new companion had several textbooks and a notebook filled with symbols spread across the workspace. He carefully set down the drinks and held his pale hand out.

"Abraxas Malfoy. My apologies again for my clumsy actions earlier. Might I sit with you, as there are no other free tables?" he said, trying for the smoothness Nott had always accused him of using in the boardroom to manipulate clients. His hand hung there for a beat before it was shook.

"Tom Riddle and that's fine. Just don't spill coffee on my books," he answered with a suggestion of a smirk.

Abraxas' cheeks pinked at the reminder as he took the seat across from Tom. The symbols and text in the books looked like no language Abraxas had ever seen before. Vibrant pictures of greenery and women spun around and between the words. While it was certainly old, the images were fascinating.

"The Voynich manuscript," Tom offered after he had been studying Abraxas surreptitiously over his notebook for a moment. "Circa early 15th century Italy or Prague."

Tom had picked the book up as a lark one day. His history professor had mentioned it in passing while discussing fascinating tomes of early history. He had tuned out much of the lecture as he had looked into several of the discussed books, but when it had been mentioned that no one in several centuries had been able to decode it, Tom was hooked. The idea of his name going into the history textbooks as the one who finally uncovered the mystery behind the manuscript was enthralling. It would cement his place as the foremost historical scholar.

Abraxas' eyes widened comically at the revelation. Tom to the opportunity to look him over more fully. He was fair, so pale he looked as if he had been left in some dark place for too long. There was no denying the pleasing symmetry to the other man's face. His hair, almost white in the darkly lit café, reached almost to his elbows. The suit he wore probably cost more than Tom's laptop, but he wore it well.

"I've heard of this. It's rumored to have driven men mad trying to decode what the symbols mean," Abraxas said. He glanced at Tom's face curiously before staring back down at the strange book.

"Those claims haven't been substantiated actually," Tom explained. "Most people usually have no idea what I'm talking about."

"I'm not most people."

Later, Tom would wonder if it was the arrogance Abraxas carried—that sureness of his place in the world and everyone else's place underneath him. Tom spent so much of his time discretely fighting: to be the top dog in class, to prove that he was the genuine article, to be taken seriously as an intellectual and not be a scholarship kid who got in on pity. It was difficult with his out of style clothes and his secondhand bag. He worked backbreaking hours just to afford his rent. The laptop, his first new purchase upon entering graduate school, had felt like a treasure he wasn't supposed to touch.

Abraxas had chided Tom over the state of his clothes, the ponce.

"How am I supposed to be seen in public with you if you insist on dressing like a street urchin?" he said one day a few weeks into their acquaintance.

"I wasn't aware you were intending on taking me in public," Tom retorted, offended on behalf of his patched coat.

He was promptly thrown back on his bed and shut up.

Abraxas was true to his word and they went out often. Symphonies, plays, and more museums than even Tom could keep track of. The blond had no concept of money and seemed intent on draining his coffers to amuse Tom. It came to a head over take-out, of all things.

"Let me grab it," Tom said as he stood up from the couch to grab the door. Abraxas let out a laugh.

"Love, I've already paid. It's an online carrier service." He held up his phone as if in proof. Tom closed the door on the delivery driver, who seemed to tremble at the wrathful look on his face.

The mood of the room shifted from movie night to morgue. The clacking of cheap wooden chopsticks was incredibly loud in the silence. Tom refused to fight across cardboard containers of stir fry. He would not involve himself in the stereotypical couple fight about money. He was better than that.

Abraxas, for his part, wanted no part in dramatics. Tom would sulk, they would discuss, and then silently apologize. His father had raised him to not make a scene, even in private. Abraxas had never even heard his mother raise her voice. Such things were Not Done.

After dinner, rather than engage in a argument, Tom dragged Abraxas by the hair to his bedroom. The containers could wait until morning when their anger was much subsided.

Three weeks later, more discord was sewn between the pair. Abraxas sat watching a mindless police procedural as Tom attempted to make tea. Grumblings from the kitchen about how apparently two bachelor's degrees and a master's were apparently not enough to make the cooker work alerted Abraxas to his lover's issues. He glided into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Tom's waist as he argued with the kettle.

"Move in with me," Abraxas said without preamble. Tom set the kettle down slowly and turned around in his arms.

"What did you just say?" he asked, brow arching dangerously. Abraxas seemed unperturbed.

"Move in with me. Break the lease on this flat. Half of the appliances have a mind of their own and your upstairs neighbors never stop screaming at each other," he murmured into Tom's neck. "I can set up a study for you off of the library and—"

Tom shoved him away and stalked into the living room. "I'm not having this discussion."

Hurt registered on Abraxas' face, but the younger man wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was pulling his hands through his hair and scrubbing them across his face.

"I will not be kept, Abraxas," Tom said lowly. "I know your father intends for you to marry the oldest Rosier daughter. I will not be kept in the same house you fuck that woman in."  
"Christ, Thomas, is that what this is about?" Abraxas was across the small room and in front of Tom in a flash. Carefully, he replaced Tom's hands on his face with his own. "I told Father I would not marry her. I want you, you idiot, not some simpering gently-bred harpy."

Tom said nothing, but looked into Abraxas' guileless grey eyes. The pleading innocence was startling and frightening. Tom had been expecting one of two scenarios to be the end result of this dalliance. Either Abraxas would toss him aside for a debutante or he would attempt to hold on to Tom as an affair. Neither were particularly appealing. Staying together, damn the consequences, had never entered Tom's mind. And he was suddenly terrified.

"Okay," Tom whispered finally. Abraxas' lips came to rest on his forehead. "Okay."

Relationships rarely run smoothly and Tom and Abraxas' was no different. They fought over closet space (Abraxas owned far too many suits for one man), linens, and library cataloging systems. Maximilian Rosier was apoplectic at the failed betrothal between Drusella and Abraxas. A copy of the announcement between her and Cygnus Black was mailed to Malfoy Manor with a snotty and homophobic note. The paper also featured an anonymous account of the scandalous relationship the Malfoy heir was engaging in. Tom idly looked into the financial records of Rosier's company and anonymously alerted the tax authorities to several profitable errors that were being swept under the rug.

Tom's relationship with the Malfoy patriarch was tumultuous to say the least. At first, Armand wanted nothing to do with Tom and repeatedly introduced him as Abraxas' "school friend", even though they had never attended the same school. It took Abraxas' mother's quiet persuasion before Armand saw the truth of the situation. It helped that the disappearance of Rosier from the financial sector made their company quite a good deal of money. Armand purchased an expensive watch for him in thanks. The inscription on the back read, "Sanctimonia Vincet Semper." Abraxas was stunned at the gift and informed his lover later that that was akin to an open arms welcome to the family.

Six years later after their first meeting, Abraxas found himself in his favorite café. After balancing several drinks on a tray, he turned to make his way back to their table. A dark-haired child ran straight into his legs, causing the tray to tilt dangerously. Abraxas righted the tray and looked down at the pouting girl.

"Ariella! What have we said about running?" he asked, smoothing her wild hair back. His daughter widened her eyes in innocence and glanced down at her feet.

"Running isn't ladylike and I'm not to prance around like a wild beast," she mumbled. Abraxas laughed and she looked at him shrewdly, mirroring her father's frustrated expression exactly.

"Your eloquence is definitely genetic, Ari. Come along. Papa's going to be put out if he has to wait for his coffee any longer."

Tom Riddle was attempting to wrangle a blond toddler into a highchair and failing miserably. Nicholas appeared very put out with not being allowed to sit in his father's lap. That he had drooled all over priceless manuscripts and had attempted to eat a Montblanc fountain pen was of no consequence. All was to be available to the small dictator and finding out this was not true was distressing.

Abraxas set the tray down and traded Tom children. Nicholas leaned back on Abraxas' chest and looked smugly in Tom's direction. Tom had the unkind thought that only a Malfoy could manage that look at two years of age.

"How has your latest paper been received, love?" Abraxas asked as he sipped his drink.

"Wonderful, of course. Professor Halting has done nothing but praise the work. I expect to be offered another grant through the university to fully examine the implications of the study," Tom said. He had finally cracked the Voynich manuscript three years ago and was making waves in the academic community because of it. "It has the possibility of offering a new look on-"

Abraxas was saved from his husband's lengthy discussion by his mobile ringing. After thanking the caller and arranging for a meeting later that afternoon, he hung up and stared at Tom. The inquiring eyebrow raise seemed to shake Abraxas out of his stupor.

"Mrs. Pitchins from the adoption office just called," he stuttered out. "A little girl was just brought into the Whitechapel office." Tom flinched at the mention of his former home, but finally grasped what Abraxas was saying.

"Her name is Katarina and she's just three. Mrs. Pitchins wants us to come immediately to meet her and think about adding her to our family," he continued.

Tom looked down at Ariella dozing against his shoulder and Nicholas in Abraxas' lap. He hadn't expected this gift. He remembered standing in that very office, a dump of the highest order, and watching day after day as other children were taken home. The thought of getting someone out of there captured Tom. It wasn't as if they wanted for money or space or nannies. He looked up at his still shell-shocked husband.

"Let's go," Tom said suddenly. "And try not to spill your coffee when you pick up our son."

-A/N-

A belated happy birthday present for Colubrina. Originally posted on AO3, but I thought I would cross-post here.


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